


Can Somebody Tell Me Who I Am?

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Whumptober 2018 (Complete) [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: ABO Fic, AU, Day 16 - Bedridden, Gen, Whumptober, slave fighter!Noctis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 17:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Noctis has grown used to spending his Heats fighting in the depths of the Pit, fighting to live another day.Now that he's at the Citadel though, Regis has forbidden him fighting, and Clarus refuses to let him seek out a distraction from the pain, insisting on rest instead.All told, Noctis is happy about precisely none of it.





	Can Somebody Tell Me Who I Am?

It's been a long time since he's had a Heat capable of putting him on bed-rest. Not since before he became the Empire's champion slave. Past that, every Heat he's had he's ridden out in the depths of the Pit, using the pain as further motive to fight to the death and see another dawn. 

These past few months, his lord has made it clear he is not to fight. At all. It makes the warrior in him balk, makes him want to bare teeth in warning. But his lord's older warriors - Clarus and Cor - have explained it to him. His lord wants him in fit condition. And fighting hurts him, wears away at him in it's own ways. It's fine to fight if he's protecting someone. But fighting for the sheer rush of adrenaline, the taste of blood, will only hinder him.

It's soothed some of the insult away, though not all. Especially because his lord is... weak. Wounded, from what he can tell. His leg gives him trouble, and he wears a brace to make up for it, and uses a cane as well. How easy would it be for an enemy to grab that cane and smash the wounded knee? To put his patriarch and lord down and kill him?

Noctis doesn't like it. Not being banned from fighting unless he's protecting, not the fact that his lord is weak, not the fact that he has been taken from the Pit, from his pups, and told he must be a Prince instead. That he would have been soft-bellied and cowardly, if raised here in this Citadel. 

But he likes the fact that as soon as he stops fighting, he can't ignore the pain, even less. 

He's focused on the pain for as long as he's lived, thrived off of it, used it to fuel his anger and his punches. But without anything to aim at, all it does is drive him mad. He wants to fight - wants to gnash his teeth and stomp his feet, and challenge the biggest warlord in the room to an all-out brawl. 

What he does instead is pace in his room. Forty paces to the left, forty-one to the right. The room is off by one square - that bothers him too. But not as much as the pain.

He counts the tiles as he strides left to right, right to left. Ten long, twenty wide, forty-paces to the left, forty-one to the right. He counts the tiny motes of dust in the air, ten long, twenty wide, forty-paces to the left, forty-one to the right. He walks and circles and snarls at nothing,  _ten long, twenty wide, forty paces to the left, forty-one to the right._

There's a knock on his door, brisk. Clarus - his lord's Shield. "Prince Noctis, are you well?"

"No," Noctis snarls, deep and guttural. "I want  _blood._ Fight me, Clarus. This pain is excruciating."

Clarus watches him pace. "Then rest."

"No." He turns on heel (ten long) and snaps back across the room (twenty wide). "I want to fight. I want to feel someone die beneath me. And I refuse to sit and grow stagnant like a coward. My lord might be content to wither and fade, but  _not I."_

Clarus listens to his temper speak, and takes a step forward, closing the door behind him. Noctis continues pacing, until Clarus reaches out and grabs his arm. Noctis lets his feet slide, and turns to face Clarus eye-to-eye, noses inches apart. 

"A weapon is only as good as the hand that holds it. But more than that, a brittle weapon has no place on the battlefield. Are you brittle, Prince Noctis?"

"You know I'm not."

"Then rest." Clarus steps back. "The Heat makes you hurt. I don't blame you for wanting blood - Ruts put us in tempers too. But right now your body is drawing excess from itself - if you don't rest, you'll be withered at the turn of the new month. Do you want that? Do you want Regis to see his only son, his  _Omega son,_ as a frail flower that doesn't know his own limits? As someone that needs  _handling?"_

That shouldn't burn, but it does. Deep inside him, there is a child that has not stopped screaming since he was first broken all those years ago, and now it screams  _no no, I am not weak!_

 _"_ I am not weak, Clarus. And I will not  _be_ weak, not for my lord. You know this."

"I do. But it doesn't matter what I know, Prince Noctis. It matters what Regis, and what the world at large,  _sees._ If they come and see a trembling Omega, they will think you a weakness. And Regis' life will be made more difficult because of it. But if you rest, if you let the pain run its course through sleep and meditation and drinking and eating, you will come to the courts looking respectable and strong, and they won't want to hurt our lord. Am I clear?"

Noctis gnashes his teeth. He doesn't like it. Doesn't  _want_ this.

But he wants to appear weak even less.

"Fine," he eases out at last. "I don't like this."

"You don't have to like it," Clarus says, and steps forward again and lay a hand on his shoulder. "But you've fought long and hard enough, Noctis. Let us carry this weight for you now. Let us keep you safe."

"I don't need to be kept safe," Noctis objects, but he lets Clarus steer him back towards the bed. "Just let me fight."

"No. Not unless we're in dire straights, or all of us are dead. Sit. Rest. Meditate. Are you hungry?"

He's had a craving for fruit all morning. "Fruit. Anything, but a lot of it. It's all I want."

"Then that's what I'll have sent up."

"I can get it myself."

"Resting, remember? That means letting the servants bring you food and water. Which reminds me, your jug is empty, isn't it?"

The terra clay jug on his bedside is bone dry, and has been for half a day. "Yes."

"Then we'll get you water." He pushes down on a shoulder, and Noctis grumbles as he settles onto the soft mattress again. He hates it and appreciates its softness in turns. Right now, he hates it. "When your Heat is over, then you can get out of bed and come talk to me about fighting. But for the rest of your Heat, I want you to stay here. And if you absolutely  _must_ go anywhere, call Gladio. He gave you his cellphone number for a reason."

He still isn't sure about Gladiolus. "I'll think on it."

"No, you'll do it." And there's the same tone of voice the old war dogs used when they were training the pups. "Gladio wants to be made useful. He hates that you distrust him so. Give him a chance to prove himself."

"I don't need a Shield. I need brothers."

"Can't they be the same thing?" Clarus asks, and walks out of the room. 

A few moments after that, another soft knock on the door announces the arrival of a maid bearing a very large platter of fruits. Noctis' stomach grumbles, and he mutters a thanks as she refills his water jug before curtsying and excusing herself.

He eats the entire platter of fruit, and then rather than getting up and fighting the pain some more, he forces himself to turn over on his stomach. The softness beneath him cradles all the right spots, and he breathes in and out, sinking into a meditative trance. Steadily, the pain begins to bleed away, and stays away throughout the night. 

In the morning, Noctis orders another platter of fruit, another jug of water, and watches the sun rise from his window seat.


End file.
